Holding Pattern
by Caranath
Summary: inspired in part by SnowPrincess's 'Resurrection' but in a decidedly more gloomy tone.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Julie Pembroke looked up from her desk at the sound of the elevator chime. The door opened, and the young man exited, gave her a small smile and continued on down the hall without saying a word. Right on time. He was so punctual she could set her watch by him. Once, she even made that very same comment as he arrived, which elicited a small chuckle and an embarrassed duck of the blond head, but no other response. Julie sighed, feeling sorry for this sad young man.

"Who was that?" Barbara, the new girl, asked. "And why didn't he sign in?"

"We sign him in." Julie passed over the log book filled with names, room numbers and other tiny details. At the top of the page with today's date was, in Julie's handwriting, the first entry being time stamped at 1:15. the second entry was for just prior to ten am. She sighed again. "He is here, every single Tuesday at 1:15 without fail. He stays exactly 45 minutes and then he leaves. I think I can count on one hand the number of times he has missed a visit the entire time." she even flipped a few pages to future Tuesdays. They were all pre filled out.

"How long has it been?" Barbara asked, curious.

"Slightly over five years."


	2. Belgium

**A/n:** _I always wondered what Joe's life would have been like if Iola didn't die but instead was left comatose. Without that closure, what would he have done? My guess is he would have ended up in Limbo, never being able to move on. Someday I may expand on what I touch on here, especially the Civil War between the friends over what happens to Iola. but for now this is just a little alternate timeline dribble._

 **Belgium**

"Is it Tuesday again already?!" the somewhat feeble voice called out from an open door as he passed by. He paused at the door and stuck his head in.

"If it is, it must be Belgium." he said affectionately. He took stock of the normally plain room, today filled with many balloons, flower arrangements and cards. "What have we here? Did you throw a party and not invite me, Mrs. Cassidy?"

"Oh, you." the frail old woman simpered. "If you must know, my birthday was Sunday. Everyone came and made so much noise old Hatchetface kicked everyone out before dinner." her impish smile changed to a pouty frown and she actually crossed her arms in a huff. Despite himself, Joe laughed at the comical presence she displayed.

"Be nice." he chided.

"At my age, young man, nice is overrated." Joanna Cassidy retorted pertly. "Now shoo. I need my beauty rest and your lady love is waiting."

"Yes Ma'am. See you next week." and he withdrew back into the hall and headed down one more room.

As always, he hesitated at the door. Unlike many of the other rooms in this place, this door was closed. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed open the door, stepping in quickly. The lights were dimmed and the blinds drawn, as they usually were. There was no greeting from the figure in the bed however. Underneath the violently purple faux mink blanket Iola Morton lay as if asleep. Five years ago, on a Tuesday, her life was forever altered, and Joe Hardy's along with it.

Looking at her from this angle, you couldn't see the horrible burns that scarred her once beautiful face. Maybe that was why the blinds were always drawn, he mused. To keep the harsh light of day from highlighting what used to be.

As he did every single Tuesday, he came closer, leaned in and softly kissed her forehead. "Hey Baby." he whispered before sitting down in the fairly comfortable chair and taking her hand in his. In the beginning, he used to fantasize vividly that those tiny porcelain fingers would twitch ever so slightly to grasp his hand and he'd get into near fist fights with anyone who told him he was imagining things. Five years later, he knew it was useless to even hope that such a thing had ever been possible.

His ritual 45 minutes varied from week to week. Sometimes he'd ramble on as if she were hanging on to every word. Other times, he sit there and cry silent tears. And one Tuesday every year he'd sob uncontrollably, apologies and self loathing in equal measure. At first he tried to be upbeat, talking to no one about his plans for the future. College. Working for his father. Saving up for that sports car. But that didn't last long. Gradually, talk turned to missed opportunities, and loss and even severe depression. The angry shouting at her to just wake up already dammit lasted a month. Currently he was in a numb phase. No words, tears or even strong emotion.

He was in a Holding Pattern, and he knew it. Lord knows how many times someone tried, gently or otherwise, to jolt him out of this rut he was in. Only one person knew exactly what he was going through, and didn't judge or try and get him to see reason. And it wasn't his brother. About three years ago, the Morton's had been advised by the neurologist that there was little to no hope that Iola would ever wake up. One of the case managers at this long term health care facility for terminal patients suggested diffidently that they should strongly consider withholding nutrients and allow their daughter a dignified end. Chet was beyond furious and started screaming at them, calling them every name in the book and a few that weren't. Other friends tried to get involved but all that ended up doing was permanently destroying their circle of friends with some backing Chet's desire to keep her alive and others siding with the Mortons on letting her go.

When the Morton's officially decided to end palliative care for their daughter, Chet and Joe went on a drunken weekend bender together and when it was over, Chet sued his parents for custody and power of attorney. Eventually they capitulated and the first thing he did was reinstate IV nutrients to his sister. Joe split the cost of her care with him, basically earmarking every penny of the reward money and savings he had amassed over the years. He never finished college and refused to ever work a case again. Instead he became a mechanic and a very good one, responsible for an entire fleet of company cars at the TV station were both Liz and Chet worked.

No one, not even his father when pressed, could accuse Joe of wasting his life, and yet everyone still felt he was just existing, not truly living. Fenton went so far as to suggest his younger son leave Bayport permanently, starting fresh somewhere else. He simply, flatly, said no and continued his Tuesday Ritual. Frank tried to get him to loosen up, but again was turned down. His only real friend now was Chet. Even Frank had become distant, being unable to watch his brother's lack of purpose any longer. And Joe didn't care. As far as he was concerned, his life ended that fateful Tuesday as well.

Precisely 45 minutes later, Joe got up, leaned over the tiny figure surrounded by purple fuzz and kissed her lips softly. He no longer winced at the rough feel of the scars on her face or shied away from the waxy melted look of her cheek but he did still close his eyes as he leaned over. "See you next week, Honey. I love you."

And Joe Hardy left. Tuesday would come soon enough.


End file.
